


Birds

by mesmelaika



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Birdwatching, Bisexual Stanley Uris, F/F, F/M, M/M, Musical References, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie is a musical theatre nerd, Slow Burn, bill is sweet but kinda toxic, but not likely bc i have little self control, but patty and richie are best friends too, established stanley uris/bill denbrough, fuck it. everyone is gay, patty is depresso, so is patty, stan is ANXIOUS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesmelaika/pseuds/mesmelaika
Summary: Stan is an avid birdwatcher and a bit (a lot) of an introvert. Patty is also a birdwatcher as well as a quiet musical theatre lover. Both of them are dealing with separate conflicts, internal and external... but maybe they can be helped with the presence of the other.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh/Original Female Character(s), Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Birds

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends ! this is my first time writing this type of work (a fic lol), but i love creative writing and all the lovely members of the IT universe. i can't promise i'll be very consistent in updating, but any support/feedback would assist as it is greatly motivating and appreciated. thank you sO much for reading, i'm grateful that you've made it thus far. enjoy! p.s. if you believe this chapter is lacking in loser's club content (as it's very patty-centric), fear not. more shall come soon.

It was a hawk, a red tailed hawk. 

Patty stumbled over her loose shoelaces when she caught sight of it, reaching for the binoculars resting around her neck. Adjusting the magnification with fast fingers, she frowned, involuntarily pressing the eyepieces into her skin as she scanned for the bird. They weren’t uncommon, especially on the mountainous paths of California in the beginnings of winter, when they migrated south. In fact, red tailed hawks were probably the most common species in their genus, Buteo, she thought. That or a common buzzard. 

Despite the frequency of their sightings, Patty never hesitated to get a good look at one. They were plain pretty, long auburn feathers and expressive eyes that emanated a delicate sadness. Delicate patterns on their underwing and magnificent posture suggested regality, but a modest one in comparison to some BOP. For example, a bald eagle, she mused, one corner of her mouth angled upwards. She then cursed out loud to herself-- the hawk was nowhere to be found, even after scanning the entirety of the surrounding chaparral. 

“You alright?” Startled, Patty jumped as she spun to meet the eyes of a boy, a little taller than she, with curly sunwashed brown hair and chestnut eyes crinkled with concern and a tinge of amusement. She noticed that he, too, carried binoculars, as well as a mahogany bookbag swung over his right shoulder. 

“Oh!” she chuckled, inwardly cringing at her clumsy manner. “Yeah. I mean, I’m just, you know, birdwatching. And I lost a hawk. Not my hawk, but—“

“You have a hawk?” The boy’s eyebrows raised and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. It was a strange expression, a casual twinkling hidden behind his eyes.

“No! I wish I did, but no, I just spotted one and was hoping to get a better look at it but I didn’t, uh, adjust these in time,” Patty gestured towards the binoculars still clutched in her right hand. 

“Sorry, I’m messing with you. I think I know which one you’re talking about; the red tailed, no?” he approached her then, using his own pair to survey the awakening sky from her perspective. It was still early in the morning, and Patty marveled at the rarity of such an occurrence: two birdwatchers, roughly the same age of, what, 16? (she had yet to decipher it exactly) meeting at the same spot on a mountain trail just after dawn. In fact, it was rare even to meet another birdwatcher, regardless of age. Patty had thought about joining the audubon society, but feared the majority of its members would not appreciate a younger, less knowledgeable addition to their population. 

She was snapped out of her thoughts when the boy next to her jolted upwards, swinging his arm in her direction to point a finger at the spotted hawk; and in his enthusiasm, slamming his forearm into the side of her head. Patty uttered an unattractive grunt as she fell to the ground. 

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry, I swear I’m usually not this careless. Oh god, are you ok? I got really excited over the hawk. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry is your head alright? Let me take a look--” The boy went on, and Patty immediately felt guilty when her eyes fell upon his face. It was sorry and horrified and sheepish all at once, and she felt the need to comfort him despite the throbbing pain on the left side of her head. 

Patty began to reassure him of her health when he knelt down and gently took her head into his hands, setting down his bookbag. He turned it so that he could assess any damage, and in her surprise, Patty felt her lips close once again, allowing no sound to pass through them. His touch was light, careful fingers pushed her hair out of the way. Her heart rate hadn’t slowed since he’d appeared; in fact, it had done the opposite, and she worried that the boy might be able to feel it in their closeness. 

His face had become much more solemn, Patty recognized the focused look as the one he had worn when searching for the bird. But the lines of his face were soft-- he had a classic button nose, contoured lips pressed thinly together in concentration, and cheekbones set high on his face, milky white. It was impossible to decipher exactly what thoughts passed through his consciousness. However, he quickly returned from his private headspace, observing the exponentially smaller distance between the two figures. His posture was less than steady as he stood and neatly brushed the remaining bits of debris from his pants, a smudge of pink had reached his cheeks. He seemed to shake this off while providing his diagnosis: “Can’t say for sure, but I think you’ll be alright. There’s no visible injury.”

She tried to shake off her nervousness as well, but found it much more difficult. “Uh-- yes. I agree,” she said, her volume at least twice that of his. Man, get a grip, she thought as she formulated her next phrase. “You found the bird, right?” She stood up and awkwardly tried to imitate his pant-brushing on her corduroy bottoms.

He hesitated, then nodded, as if he had forgotten the original cause of the event until the mention of the animal. “Then it was worth it.” She grabbed the bookbag from the ground and handed it to him. “I’m Patty.”

“You don’t seem to care much for your welfare, Patty,” he said, taking the bag from her grasp with a sly smile, “but I appreciate the dedication. I’m Stan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Stan. Sorry it had to be under these circumstances,” as she said this, she performed a lazy reenactment of the collision with a single arm, and Stan finally allowed his smile to appear in its entirety. It was a fantastic smile. As it widened, dimples appeared, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. His head just slightly tipped to the right side. It was a knowing smile, she thought, one she could tell he didn’t give it out freely. It was like he knew, subconsciously, that the expression wouldn’t last forever, and with the anticipation of its end came sadness. Patty wanted to make Stan smile like that as much as she could, so much so that he wouldn’t anticipate its demise but the beginning of the next one. 

“Entirely my fault. I should’ve just told you then that we’d see way more red-tailed if we just continued on the trail instead of waiting here.” Stan said, jerking his head in its direction. The action ruffled his curls, and several more fell to rest on his forehead. His hands flew to them in an attempt to place them back in their previous positions. 

“Shall we then?” Patty made a sweeping motion towards the remaining trail. Not waiting for his reply, she started on the path, hoping she would hear his footsteps following behind her.

She did. 

. . .

Stan was completely right about the hawks. Actually, he was right about most things when it came to birds. While Patty approached the activity with raw curiosity and enthusiasm, Stan was composed, slowly making private observations and quietly sharing information about each of the species they came across. 

Patty watched his behavior just as much as the birds, marveling at his modest grace and patience. The way he could get so caught up in his own thoughts while he sketched something into one of the notebooks from his bookbag, and his jaw would set when he added texture to a drawing, methodically pulling the pencil back and forth on the page. There was a sort of rhythm to the activity: one of them would spot a bird and alert the other, who would join them to get a closer look. They would stay watching that single creature in silent joy until it flew away. They would then continue on the path, sweeping into the sparse Californian canopy with their vision. 

“Patty!” Stan whispered, not taking his eyes off of the newest spot. She crept towards him and tried to follow his line of sight. He pointed (much more gently this time) up at a small bird that hung onto the side of an oak trunk. It was spotted black and white, with a smudge of bright red on the backside of its head. 

“Hairy woodpecker?” she guessed. Patty was pretty well versed in native birds, she thought, but nowhere near that of her companion. Though fairly confident in her latest prediction, she wasn’t sure why Stan would point out the common bird with such excitement.

“Close. Downy woodpecker-- these guys are so much harder to spot, I haven’t seen one in forever. The beak gives it away. Hairies have a longer, chiseled one, but downies have short, dainty one. Man, this one’s really tearing up that trunk.” He trailed off. The little bird frantically pecked into the wood of the oak, juxtaposing itself against Stan’s absolute stillness. At least, until he opened his notebook once again and plucked a pencil from his back pocket. He quickly sketched an outline of the woodpecker, then added general texture to its body. He had only finished about half of this step before it flew away, presumably to find a more acceptable tree. 

Patty frowned. “Doesn’t it bother you? To sketch so many of the things you see but only have time to get part of them?”

“It infuriates me to my core, Patty.” Stan said jokingly. But Patty thought she could sense some truth to the statement. He smiled as he said it, but it didn’t penetrate the intensity of his eyes. She wondered what chord she had struck with her question, hoping she hadn’t ruined their interaction. Her time to ponder this was cut short, though, for he reopened his notebook to its earlier pages. Her eyes widened. 

On every page was a sketch-- no, an illustration of a different bird, complete with contrasting textures, colors, and detail. Each was done with tangible care; as she looked closely, Patty could even see the variety of line thickness to indicate the hard or soft lines of the animal. Next to every bird were extensive notes, observations about the individual shown. It looked time-consuming, painstakingly detailed, and utterly beautiful. “But worry not. I finish them at home.”

“They’re-- I mean, it’s--” She struggled in her awe. Then chose the word that had come to mind moments earlier. “Beautiful, Stanley. Really.” Patty glanced up at him, and as she did so, she saw his face change. The subtle frustration and tinge of embarrassment that outwardly littered his mind before melted. His eyes softened, and his lips curved into an elusive grin. The moment was fleeting, though, as his face visibly heated in what Patty assumed was bashful modesty. He looked down. 

“I’ve only shown the finished drawings to, like, two people. Including you.” 

“I must be pretty darn special then, huh?” Patty poked him, then stood up from the spot they had, at some point, settled in. 

“Eh, not quite. Average at best.” Stan followed her, shaking the stiffness of his legs out. He closed the book again, and started to place it and the pencil back into his bag. 

“Ya know, you’re really ruining the moment.”

“I’ve been known to.” 

“Not one for sentiment?” Stan, not looking up from the bag as he fastened it shut, shook his head. “But you’re an artist.”

“I literally only draw birds,” Patty opened her mouth to protest his downplaying, but he wasn’t done, “and sometimes still life. Are you?”

“An artist, or sentimental?” She looked to him for clarification. He made a small sweeping gesture with his hand: both, she thought. “A visual artist, no. I couldn’t draw if you begged me to, it’s tragic. But I sing and act. Still working on the whole dancing thing. As it turns out, my coordination is nearly as bad as my drawing skills.” They started on the trail again. Patty had been on it before, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before they reached the town on the other side. Oddly, it made her sad. 

“Am I sentimental...?” She paused. Was she? Patty thought she was rational about most things, but her decisions tended to come down to her emotions. She thought back about two years earlier, when she had finally mustered up the courage to tell her parents that music was her passion. 

Her mother had immediately gone quiet, then was quick to deny any such idea. Patty continued to persuade her that it was true, that she wanted to pursue singing and did not want to follow in her mother’s business-y footsteps. She had never stepped so far out of line in her household before, out of fear of the consequences for disappointing those who shared it with her. She remembered the look on her father’s face-- he wanted to support her, surely, but could never under the reign of their stern matriarch. He was sympathetic but helpless. That day, Patty had admitted to a desire to follow her heart, and drove a wedge between her and her mother that was since irrevocable. Quietly, she finished, “I think so, yeah.”

Stan didn’t question her further. Instead, they finished the path in comfortable silence. As they came closer to civilization, the trees became spaced farther apart, allowing more sunlight to bare down upon the pair. It was a little past breakfast time, later than Patty would have liked only in anticipation of the incoming hot sun. 

The trail grew larger as smaller ones came to meet it and the dirt below them was denser now, packed down from many pairs of heavy feet falling upon it.  
The path led up one more crumbly hill, dry from the past months void of precipitation. It was the end of summer, after all. Stan approached the slope hesitantly, placing one boot on a solid looking clump of soil. He began a stiff ascent up the hill, slowly making progress with shaky steps on similar clumps. Patty followed, matching her pace to his, careful to place her boots exactly where he had done so. 

She watched his perfectly maintained leather shoes and the cuffs of khaki bottoms as they became sullied with dust, agitated by their passing. The shoes contrasted wildly with her own; grey platform boots (inappropriately chosen for the occasion, she acknowledged) that she had lovingly accessorized with small stickers and Crayola markers. She felt great affection towards these boots that had been purchased by her friend for her last birthday and decorated that night. These are officially your gay shoes, he’d said, inking in a rainbow on the right heel, so you can’t forget about me when you wear them. Patty always stomped about in them pridefully, but somehow felt self-conscious next to Stan, who glowed with intentional tidiness. 

As they gained confidence in their strides, Stan sped up almost imperceptibly, just enough for Patty to notice that each step was chosen with slightly less care than before. They were close to the top, but she refused to take any chances. 

“Stan?” 

“Hm?”

She opened her mouth to remind him to be wary of the slippery terrain, but as he turned his head to address her, he stepped on a patch of loose sand, just as she feared. His arms flew forward, an involuntary reflex to rebalance himself. The action was ineffective, but at the same time, Patty’s body initiated a reflex of its own, one leg extending behind her and the other bending at the knee, a stance that solidified her place on the slope. Without time to comprehend the action, her torso lurched up as Stan fell back and she hugged her arms around his chest.

The moment stretched. Patty held on in shock, feeling his rapid heartbeat through his collared shirt. 

But it passed. She loosened her grip, and Stan hesitated a moment before moving out of it. Her residual adrenaline, activating like an opened dam, manifested itself into a giggle. The giggle multiplied, and she grew breathless as lengthy, loud strings of laughter spewed from her body. Stan, dazed from the fall and the catch, watched her in bafflement, giggles surfacing from his lips too.

“Stan-- what’s your full name, Stan?” She said, struggling to form a sentence with her still hyperactive diaphragm. 

Stan gave an automatic reply, his weak voice phrasing it like a question: “St-Stanley Uris?”

“Stanley Uris. I do believe,” she tried to assume a more serious demeanor, failing miserably, “that we are even.” Her reference to their earlier collision didn't require further explanation. She studied his expressions as they switched from utter confusion to some sort of comprehension, the smile that she enjoyed so thoroughly, returning to his face.

“You’re-- you’re--” he stuttered with some bewilderment. 

“Fantastic? Beautiful? Clever?” Patty raised her eyebrows, surprising herself with confidence she would associate with some of her more outgoing friends (that’s one way to put it, she thought), not often herself.

“Insane.” He finished. “I was going to say insane, but realized halfway through that I didn’t need to state the obvious.”

“Yet you chose to.”

“You were getting cocky, I was only saving you from yourself.” 

“I see. I should thank you, then.”

“The pleasure was mine, Patty…” The lilt placed on the last word and the tilt of his head asked for her full name. 

“Blum. Patricia, technically.”

“Pretty.” He looked at her, unaware that the observation felt like scrutiny to Patty, who went red as a result of it. She performed a quick nod, and turned to best the remaining part of the hill. After taking a step, she felt a hand grasp her wrist. “Uh-- Patty. Thank you for catching me. Really.” She pivoted again and took a breath. He was looking away, and Patty sensed it was difficult for him to say so. Hoping to find the confidence that inhabited her earlier, she slid her hand down to meet his soft one and gave it a squeeze. 

“No problem, Stanley.” She smiled at him, and he looked up from the ground. Patty could see the tension leave his body and felt hers follow. After a moment, she released his hand and they moved to finish the trail, climbing the remainder of the hill slowly and enjoying the far less steep descent from it.

. . .

Soon they reached the end of the trail. Patty knew it was coming, of course she did. But she didn’t expect it to come so soon. She wanted more time with the curly-haired boy. When she met his large, honey colored eyes with her own, despite knowing they were naturally melancholy, she suspected he felt similarly. 

“Hey,” Patty began, picking at her nails. She wasn’t sure how to begin. She knew so little yet felt she knew so much about Stan, and wanted to know more. But if they separated now, chances were high they’d never see each other again. He turned to look at her, and she avoided his gaze. “There’s a neat brunch place across from Faye’s if you’re hungry. Sage? It’s cool. A little hole-in-the-wall. They’ve got a wide variety, too, if you’re vegetarian or vegan or keto or paleo or anything.” She was rambling and she knew it. A thing about Patty, though-- once her train of thought becomes vocal, it is nearly impossible to stop. “Like, I’m vegetarian but I never feel like I’d rather have one of their meat options. You know? Maybe you don’t know, you could be a meat eater. Which is totally fine. I tried being vegan once, but cheese, Stan, cheese--”

“Patricia.” He brushed her upper arm, settling at her elbow and sending an anxious shiver down her spine. 

“Yes.”

“You have no idea how much I want to eat a vegetarian brunch at Sage with you, it’s ridiculous. But I, I can’t. I promised I’d meet someone at half past 10, and it’s 10:15 now.” He looked so apologetic, Patty couldn’t stand it. She knew he meant what he said, but as his hand fell from her arm, she couldn’t shake the feeling of rejection as it consumed her thoughts. “Someone’s coming to pick me up from the curb.”

“Oh. Oh! That’s. Great! Not to say I’m happy you have to leave, that sucks. But you’re probably meeting someone really awesome. Maybe a girlfriend? Or boyfriend, or… partner.” Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up

“I… partner?”

“Yup. Gotta be inclusive of our nonbinary bros, Stanley, this is important.”

“Sorry, yeah.” He turned away to watch the incoming traffic on the street they had approached, or pretend to anyway. After a beat, Patty arched her neck back and exhaled, eyes closed. 

Time passed as they stood there, presumably waiting for Stan’s ride. Patty watched the thin clouds disperse further with the rising sun. A quick glance in Stan’s direction indicated that he still observed the cars with intensity. With each vehicle that passed their specific position on the street, Patty heard a tap from the toe of his shoe. Grey Prius, tap. Icky green minivan, tap. Burnt orange Camri, tap. Black Volvo, tap. It was both annoying and satisfying, and she wondered what inspired him to do so. She wanted to avoid rambling again, though, so she didn’t bother questioning him.

“That’s me.” His voice was quiet. A steel blue Toyota Corolla waited for him, but he was hesitant to make towards it. Patty thought maybe he wanted to say something more, but she didn’t wait to hear it.

“Stan?” He hummed in response, and she forced herself to look at him. The sun hadn’t yet reached its peak, it sat just above his head from Patty’s perspective. His stray curls were illuminated, creating a halo of hair to frame his well-structured face. “Thanks for today.”

He searched her face for a moment and opened his mouth, but did not provide a verbal response; instead, he opened his bag and took the notebook he’d shown her earlier, flipped through its earlier pages, and stopped for a moment to look at one of them. Then, he lifted his hand, gripped the inner top corner of the page, and tore it evenly out of the book. Taking time to fold it perfectly, Patty watched him do so in shock. 

“You should keep this,” he said, extending his arm to hand it to her, “i- if you want to.”

“Stanley, I can’t take one of your drawings, too much work went into it for me to just--”

“Look, I already tore it out and I want you to have it.” He looked distressed, but he was resolute. It was obvious he wouldn’t leave until Patty took the drawing. She held out her hands and felt the thick, textured paper fall into them. Her long fingers closed around it, and without realizing it, she slowly brought the folded drawing to her chest. 

A heavy pause ensued. Patty tried her best to convey her gratitude and appreciation towards Stan silently, as she couldn’t think of anything to say of any worth. Well, perhaps not, but she thought of something to do. So she took a step forward and onto her toes, allowing her lips to graze one side of his cheek. They lingered there for a fraction of a second before she remembered herself and staggered back. 

Pink swarmed his cheeks; jaw hanging open the smallest bit. Seeing his embarrassment helped Patty regain some confidence, and she let out a soft giggle. “Whoever’s in that car must be pretty patient.” Their eyes met as a dazed smile reached his face. Suddenly, it changed, his hand flew to his mouth and he spun in the direction of the car.

“Ohmygod Mike!” Conflicted, his pupils darted from ‘Mike’ to Patty and back. “I totally forgot about him.”

“It’s ok, Stan. D- don’t keep him waiting.” He nodded in agreement. 

His last words to her were a whisper: “Bye, Patty,” before he started towards the car, leaving Patty breathless and torn for reasons she couldn’t decipher. Patty hated the feeling of being left behind, but what she hated more was the feeling of missed connections; the idea that no matter how hard you try, nothing will ever be quite the way you want it to be. 

As they drove away, that’s exactly what she felt.

**Author's Note:**

> note: when patty refers to her "more outgoing friends", shes talking about richie. literally just richie. prepare thyself for the next chapter, babes.


End file.
